


Blood of the Covenant

by killbot2000



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: 1920s prohibition, Everyone wears nice suits, Gen, Horror, Mafia AU, The Mob, factions are screwed up for plot reasons, gore and torture, sorry mom sorry god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-07 06:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15902649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killbot2000/pseuds/killbot2000
Summary: The Healing Church is at odds with the criminal underworld that threatens to expose their crimes. The mafia tends to be too much for most people, unless you're a one-eyed dude who wears a bucket for a hat.





	1. In which the heroes ruin good first impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, I've got quite a bit of this written but I'm at a standstill. If this seems interesting, please drop a comment and I will most likely continue! I have no pairings planned, but if anyone wants to see any, let me know and I will probably work it in if there's enough demand. Thanks for reading!

I

The pain woke him early in the night. It came from his fingers, from his jaw, and from the very muscles inside his body. He sat up in bed and pulled the chain to the lamp, lighting the room immediately in a flash of warm yellow the color of fresh bone and fat and the writhing insides that never quite left his head- 

He put his hands on his temples and tried to drive the images from his mind. The images of distress and insides from the hospital that showed when he closed his eyes, and tried to convince himself he was doing right. What he was doing was right. The screams of their patients pierced his ears. But he never performed those operations, no. He hunted those who stank of the scourge and brought them to the people clad in white. White as snow. 

Was it his fault their uniforms stained red? 

A growl of frustration came from his throat, deep and ragged, the sound of an animal. He gripped his temples harder, the pain in his fingers screaming with the force. Blood dribbled down his head and he found his fingernails had punctured the skin when he drew his hands away. The fingernails were extended like terrible shards of stone protruding from the nail beds. They were coated with flesh and blood. 

“What is this?” His voice was deep and hollow, a guttural sound that failed to sound like human speech. The words slurred together, and he felt his teeth didn’t set quite right in his mouth, his teeth the wrong shape for speaking. 

The woman in bed next to him woke. She turned over in bed, eyes squinting against the bright lamp, her voice thick with sleep, “What are you doing up, Gascoigne?” 

He remembered nothing of her pretty blonde head as it sank under his claws, remembered not the blood splattering onto the wall in an arc as a beast he didn't know existed emerged. 

II 

“You’re telling me no one saw a churchman leaving a residential house in the dead of night? This is right next to the Ward for fuck’s sake, these people don’t have any privacy to think of.” The mobster stood with arms crossed, hand stroking his chin. The courtyard was far too bright this evening, and he wore his hat pulled far down over his eyes. A single feather stuck from its brim. 

His companion barked out a laugh, “All too busy drowning themselves in blood and wine to give a shit. Their neighbors are murdering one another in their own homes and they can’t even call the coppers. Stroke of damned good luck I was posted here last night.” He kicked at a delivery crate, the glass bottles clanging loudly against each other. 

“Damned if they’ll cough up their illegal blood when the coppers find it stashed away. Don’t cause a scene, Madaras. We don’t need the Ward residents to start getting nosey now, do we?” His voice was bitter, a twisting smile coming upon his lips in a reprimand that his companion fruitlessly tried to ignore. “I’ll let the don know what we’ve found, you stay and watch the area. I’ll send Henriet to relieve you when the time comes.”

Madaras nodded his head in response and began to leave the courtyard to find a higher point in which to watch the scene, and keep away from the churchmen who would soon be knocking on their colleague’s front door. It would be uneventful, he decided, not a soul realizing the gruesome death present in the quiet residence in the center of the city. He knew not of what happened to the children living there, only that the creature that left was more beast than human. The scourge infected a man’s brain, leading him to believe himself an animal thirsty for blood. There was believed to be no cure. The church aided with ministration, but that offered only temporary solace. Each one performed led the people of Yharnam to rely more and more on the mercy of the church. 

In the center of the courtyard, the underboss Henryk looked up at Madaras in his perch, his hat brim shadowing his eyes from the sun, and saluted, an arm over his chest and the left one risen. Henryk then left the area for their front in the Ward. 

He hailed a taxi and glanced at the driver before getting in. A pendant hung from the rear view mirror, the delicate sigil of the League stamped into the metal. 

“Where to, Mister, ah-” he glanced up at the mirror, cigarette heavy in his mouth, “Mister Henryk?” 

“The lower Ward, but I need to make a stop somewhere first.” Henryk pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket, “I'll tell you when we get there.” 

“Aye.” 

The cab rolled into gear and Henryk began to write in the notebook filled with figures and shipments and names of people, their lives written in his slanted hand like a forgotten shopping list. 

“How’s your family?” He continued writing. 

The driver looked at him in the mirror again, “Doing well, Mister Henryk, thank you. The littlest turned five last month. She's got a bright future, yes she does.” 

Closing the book, he responded, “That's good. Family is important.” And set it back in his coat. 

“Have you got family, Mister Henryk?” 

“You're working for us, soldier,” he clapped a hand on the driver’s shoulder, “Stop here.” 

The taxi rattled to a halt and Henryk got out, “Keep her running.” 

The driver tipped his hat. 

Henryk crossed the sidewalk and rapped on the door to the building with his knuckles. There was no movement inside, and after several seconds, no answer. He knocked again. 

“Professor?” He called into the cracked window. The scent of incense came from the inside, along with the earthy metallic scent he knew too well. There was no light source to speak of. “Damn it.” 

He pulled a key ring from his pocket and sorted through it until he came to the skeleton key used for all their associate’s housing. Carefully he slipped it into the lock and pushed open the door. 

“Professor?” 

Silence. He crept farther into the house, drawing his pistol. At the end of the hallway spluttered a single candle, flickering and popping in its own wax. It cast a red light, the walls a rich orange, the floor the color of overripe figs. To either side of the candle was a door, the left opened just the slightest. 

Henryk approached the door and quickly kicked it open, leading into the room after his drawn gun. A small ray of the red light shone in from the doorway, just enough to see the figure curled up under the window. 

“Fuck.” The safety on the pistol clicked on and he holstered it beneath his coat. 

The professor had been dead for a few days, now swollen and stinking. Flies buzzed around, landing on the corpse’s ears and crawling into its head. Henryk crouched and inspected the clothing, wrinkling his nose. He searched for a note, some kind of struggle, any indication that his death wasn't because of the scourge. The fingernails bloody and broken, the scratches on the wall shallow and erratic like a caged animal. 

With a sigh he dropped the lapel of the dead man's coat and stood. 

The taxi still ran when he got out of the house, carefully locking the front door behind him. The driver raised his cigarette in greeting, wrinkling a pale eye. 

“You know where to go.” 

•••

Henryk reached the door to the seamstress’s shop, a delicate and unassuming front for their Ward outpost. He had paid the taxi driver his fare and bid him farewell. The seamstress nodded as he entered the shop, her dress folds blending in with the fabrics hanging on the walls so that she looked to be part of the building itself. 

“The don in?” He asked in passing. 

The seamstress snipped a thread with small silver scissors, her slender fingers nimbly working over the fabric. “I believe he came this morning.” She responded, barely looking up from her work. 

Henryk nodded and continued to the back of the shop, but not before telling her that the newest bonnets looked very flattering. Her face flushed with pride in the dimly-lit room. 

There was a creak when he opened the back door and stepped into the passage leading to the various rooms behind the shop. The Confederate Henriet looked up from her book at a stool and table before the entrance. She limply smacked her chest with a closed fist in an uncaring salute. 

“Madaras?” 

“In central Yharnam. Find someone to replace yourself and retrieve him. I doubt he's learned anything new, but take the time to scout the area. A fresh pair of eyes’ll help.” 

“What is it I'm looking for?” 

“That's up to you.” 

She huffed and shut the book with a snap, dust puffing from the cover and into the air. “Fat lot of good that does us.” She muttered, bitterly. 

“You’ll want to watch you tone with me, Henriet.” 

“Yes sir.” She called back upon exiting, and he felt nothing but both annoyance and weary fondness for the youth. 

Henryk slunk into the depths of the rooms, searching for the don in one of his bulky armchairs, eye alight with the manic fire that burnt Henryk when he got too close. There was nothing that could think to stand a chance between the don and what he wanted. Nothing except the vermin crawling in the school of Mensis and the blood of the church officers, hoping to find some cure to the gods forsaken curse set upon this town. But Henryk knew it would never end, as did the don, which is why they continued with their business, trafficking blood to those not listed on the church's sponsored families. Henryk found people would pay a high price when they had nowhere to turn. 

“Nothing?” The voice of the don startled him from his thoughts. He sat deep in his chair in front of a window overlooking the Ward, blue cigarette smoke coming from an ashtray teetering on the arm. 

Henryk stiffened, always wary of the mood of the man who frequently proved impossible to read. “Victim in Central Yharnam. I've set Madaras to stay behind and wait if he returns. It seems he slaughtered his family in their home with his bare fucking hands and none of the Ward knows.” 

The don took another puff of his cigarette. “It seems as if they've really lost it now. Who would've seen that coming?” He made a self-satisfied smirk and leaned back further into the cushion of the chair. “But no matter. We shouldn't rely on squabbling nobles for informants. Perhaps they're all finally succumbing to the scourge, as they should.” 

“I'll tell the men to keep an eye out.”

“Yes, that would be best. Now, back to business.” He stubbed the cigarette butt out into the tray, the ash coming straight up from the dish in a puff, coating the man's fingers in a thin layer of grime. “I’d like you to shake down the dispensary in Yahar'gul. We've got the nun on payroll, but we need a little bit more coin. Tell her so or we'll have to see if the churchmen really have eyes on their brains.” 

Henryk nodded, saluted, and left the way he came. On his way out he bid farewell to the seamstress, and shelled out several coins for a hat stuck atop one of the displays. 

“You know, the League gets their attire for free,” the seamstress pursed her lips at the coins, “Don Valtr has been more than generous with his offer. I-” 

“Take them. We've scared off your regular customers.” Henryk offered a small smile, “The underworld can't be good for formal business.” 

“But very good for formal wear. I do manage,” she held out a hand to take the coins, “but it's harder than one would expect. I was a lady of the night long before this job, and I will be long after. Formal business never lasts. But greed, that's something that will never leave this place.” 

“Lucky for us.” He muttered, more bitter than anything. He felt bitter. Was that regret? 

The seamstress patted his hand and curled his fingers around the hat’s brim. “We all have our cross to bare, love. You can always see me if it gets too much.”

“I expect that service isn't free.” Henryk set the hat under his arm and tipped his current one in her direction, smiling. “But one could always use a friend, madam Arianna.” 

He stepped into the road of the Cathedral Ward, turning his head to the risen moon and nearly needing to shield his eyes from its brilliance. The cover of night was nonexistent when the full moon was risen. The walk to Yahar'gul wasn't long, but the roads were often filled with undesirables, whether it be the scourge victims, or the kidnappers who worked for Mensis. He waited for a taxi to pass and hailed it down for a ride, careful to check for the telltale pendant else risk the possibility of a spy. 

“Where to, mister?” Asked the woman, her blonde hat tucked away under a bonnet. She gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles visibly paler than the rest of her. She stank of blood. 

“Yahar'gul.” He answered. 

The woman nearly recoiled. He understood, though. Cabs didn't always return from the village, especially at night. The drivers’ remains were often found drug from their cars mangled by dog teeth with no dogs to be seen. Then the corpses vanished when the cop’s backs were turned. Henryk held up his fare, several other coins stacked high for her risk. People tended to take silver over safety. And they exchanged silver for blood. 

“Get in, we’ll be there shortly. Streets are quiet tonight, mister.” 

He climbed into the taxi and shut the door gently. It lurched forward, throwing him from where he sat, the cobbles under the wheels uneven and filled with holes. Henryk readjusted himself and took out his notebook, and from the light of the moon through the window, scribed what the day had brought. Valtr hated physical records, had always warned of them, but Henryk couldn't help feeling more secure when he wrote. It organized his thoughts, and he hoped that, when he was killed in an ‘accident’ most likely set up by the coppers, someone would find it, and they would understand. Understand that this was the only path for him. A child from Yahar'gul with nowhere to turn but the underworld. And so he had. 

It took a moment for him to notice that the taxi had drawn to a stop. He glanced around at the driver, and found her frozen in place where she sat, eyes wide and unblinking. 

“I'll be a moment.” She told him and carefully got out from the cab. He drew his gun when she got out, and slowly walked farther along the narrow street. The end was dark, and Henryk could see nothing of her any longer. Then there was a scream and then the silence of the night once more. 

Henryk swung the door softly open. Steps sounded from the end of the street, steps of something large and heavy. Slowly, he crept around behind the taxi and dropped so that he could see underneath the car at the feet of the approaching attacker. They were bare, sickly grey feet, but large, far too large to be human. 

There was nothing behind him but road, and to the side, buildings, but he'd risk being seen before hiding away. His breaths were coming fast and shallow, and at that moment he knew nothing had ever scared him as much as whatever lurked around the other side of the cab. Henryk had no choice but to run. He backed away and did so, slowly at first, but the faster, the sounds of his footsteps growing louder. 

The creature let out a cry at its escaping victim, it pierced the night and Henryk's eardrums, a cry of pure rage. The excruciating sound of metal under something sharp sounded, perhaps fingernails, was followed by a crash as the cab was flipped onto its roof. Thunderous steps followed him, coming closer and closer. Henryk didn't dare look back until the creature was there, its mouth lolling open in strain, its great hands outstretched, and with a sweeping motion, sent him flying into the roadside gutter. 

All air left his lungs as he landed. His head slammed the ground with enough force to crack it open like a vase, but he could feel nothing broken, only warm blood from the impact. But as he lay on his side, groaning and trying to pry himself off the ground, the creature advanced. It was a steady walk now, nothing hurried. Henryk felt icy veins of fear shoot through his limbs as he could finally get a good look at it. 

He saw so much of it that it was barely nothing at all. There was nothing to see, only a burlap robe covering something too large.

But the worst of all had to be the large bloodied sack it carried, because Henryk knew exactly what the creature wanted to do with him. He struggled against the cobbled street, pulling himself away. Panic closed his throat. 

From behind him, a gentle suction licked at his feet, his cleanly polished shoes. It grew, swallowing him with its invisible mouth. He struggled harder, and began to scream as a large slimy hand took his ankle. There was blood running into his eyes. He blacked out before the bag even covered his face. 

III

The crow watched the thick layer of fog blanketing the city, the headlamps of taxi cabs passing through like busy flies, the edges creeping in with black. Her arms were crossed, and when she focused her eyes right, she could see her own reflection in the window glass. Dark and tall and elegant. 

“How much longer do you want to wait, Valtr? Your men are good, but they're not that good. Let me take care of it.” 

The don watched her in his chair, pale face obscured by smoke and the shadows of the room, expression neutral. 

“Not one to understate yourself, are you?” Valtr chuckled, “There’s only so much blood to go around. If I let you go out to play I won't have enough to give the confederates, and Eileen, dear, if only you'd have accepted my offer our lives wouldn't be so complicated.” 

“I'll let you know when I'm ready to hand over my autonomy, don.” She folded her arms, still in defiance of everything he wished, “For now, you said the man's name was Gascoigne?” 

The man sighed and rolled his eye, never surprised by her particular brand of stubbornness, “Father Gascoigne, yes. Expect a bonus if you bring him back before the night is over.” 

Eileen nodded. She adjusted the cuffs of her shirt before walking out. “Consider it done, don.” 

In the street she took an icy breath, leaning against the alley wall for support. The bricks stuck to the fabric of her coat, pulling the thread out piece by piece. 

“Oh, Gascoigne, what have you done?” 

She could see the man, tall and imposing, losing himself in the gutters underneath Yharnam. She saw the cops cutting him down with their guns, triumphant savagery in their faces, another beast taken care of, cleaning the streets one innocent man at a time. Valtr had told her, also, that Viola was dead. Murdered by his hand. That pretty woman; she was always so jealous of him and his luck. And his daughters, both dead. Eileen felt a tear run down her facr, but there was nothing to be done about it now. 

Eileen made her way to the only place she could think he’d to be, the tomb of a great one, dead so long ago the people celebrated it as a god. But Gascoigne had always told her he'd join those tombstones one day. She told him to cast his ego aside, that no man would be buried with those who passed into legend. If he had succumbed to the scourge as Valtr had said, she'd do her best to grant his wishes. 

The buildings flew past as she ran through the Ward, her coat flapping behind her. The fog flooded the streets so thickly that Eileen had to rely only on her spotted memory of the streets. She hoped that nothing would come from the fog. 

“Gascoigne?” She came to a halt in a clearing, puffs of white clinging to her ankles. It was still, dead still except for her voice rattling the window panes. There was nothing and she was alone. Quieter now, “Gascoigne?” The window panes rose above her like malicious eyes, black still bodies of water. No answer. 

She made her way to the chapel of Odeon, where thick scented smoke spilled out endlessly during the night. The dweller wasn't there yet, it was far too early in the night for the creature to emerge from the upper chambers, so Eileen took the moment of safe silence to check that her pistol was loaded and that she carried extra bullets. It was not her intention to kill her friend tonight, but if the scourge had him in its grasp…

“'Tis not the time to dwell on uncertainties.” She muttered to herself, reholstering the gun under her coat. There was always humanity to grasp onto, always a glimmer of hope that there was a man somewhere in the mind of a beast.


	2. World’s best boss novelty gift mug gets saved for next year, or perhaps next job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello here’s a chapter, please comment if you’d like another next month. 
> 
> Anyway this game has so much Lore that I don’t know and is so hard to translate into a different world but I Love it so much I could go on and on

I  
The tomb dripped with water. It echoed through the scene, bouncing off the gravestones and cobbles. Eileen’s footsteps followed, and the sounds chased each other until they disappeared out the front gate. She emerged from the sewers and cautiously leaned over the railing on the overlook, searching for the father amongst the stones.

She descended the stairs to the floor of the tomb, stepping around puddles where the dead lie rotting. It seemed that the church was too busy to clean up their patients after they failed to remain alive. Or, perhaps, Gascoigne decided to speed up the dying process with the help of an axe. The scourge frequently manifested itself in aggression and bloodthirst, and in Gascoigne’s line of work it wasn't unheard of churchmen stopping the disease before it even appeared. 

Amongst the bloody bodies she could not see the churchman, draped in black and holy shawl. She found nothing but more bodies, dead Yharnamites that refused the treatment of the church, couldn't spend the coin, or just gave up. 

“Gascoigne?” Eileen called into the darkness. Nothing came in return, not even a growl. “Where are you, you big oaf?” 

The tomb was empty life save herself. She cursed in frustration. Where else was left? If he was sick, very sick, he'd have no sense of direction, no cognitive function outside of the insatiable bloodlust that marked every victim. He could be anywhere. 

But she held onto the hope that her friend was still inside under the layers and layers of plague that fed on the brain as if it were rotten fruit. She only had to reach him before the church did, and they performed their terrible ministrations upon the man after torturing him, as they did with any doctor in their ranks. It was easier to experiment on one's own people, even if the church did control the city’s populace. The church lacked a sense of direction, but they made up for it with progress. Never in ways that mattered, Eileen found, never in ways that would stop the spread of the scourge. There was another motive to their actions. Something more important than a cure for the plague, but where she stood she lacked any tools to discover anything of the sort. 

There remained only one choice: hunt Gascoigne down and perform the blood transfusion herself, before the church got the chance. In Yahar'gul, the dispensary was run by a nun on their payroll. She was high-strung and haughty, but Eileen intimidated her once or twice before. There would be enough blood for a ministration down there. 

The fog cleared up as she ascended the streets of the Ward. The grand cathedral stretched high into the night, and Eileen could feel the weight of those stars on her. Their knowledge weighing her down, knowledge she would never know. She turned right and passed into Yahar'gul. Its dusty buildings stood silently in the night. She felt something else on her back. The watchful gaze of something besides the cosmos. Eileen quickened her pace. 

On her way to the dispensary, she came upon a scene. There was nothing special about the road, just dusty and crumbling like the rest of the village. But she crouched to the ground a ran a hand through the dirt. It was disturbed, not just by a carriage wheel, but by footsteps and bodies. Eileen crept farther along and looked up to see a stopped cab in the road in the darkness. 

She peeked into the cabin but found no trace of a passenger. A skid mark of blood led her to believe the driver met a dreadful end upon the stones of the road. She returned to her inspection of the ground. 

In the gutter lay a hat, unworn and pristine save for a little dust. She patted the dust off gently and held it out to look at. The passenger was a man of wealth, perhaps. Something else caught her eye, though. A scrap of yellow fabric ripped off a coat by the brick curb. Eileen picked it up and the pieces in her brain came to a conclusion. Henryk. Something terrible had befallen him. 

II

“Sergeant.” The officer greeted him, dropping a stack of papers on his cluttered desk. 

Logarius regarded him with a sigh and quiet acknowledgement of, “Alfred,” then took up the task of looking through the papers. A teacup sat to the right of him and an overflowing ashtray sat to the other. 

“Also, reports of movement by the League. The crow was seen entering Yahar’gul, but no follow up was made.” 

“You-” Logarius clenched his fist, his voice soft but measured. He took a sip of coffee and frowned, the deep lines around his mouth getting deeper. “Find someone to investigate. Do it yourself if you must. The League is priority, I said it before and I don't want to say it again. If they drive out the Church this whole gods-damned city will fall to the scourge.” 

Alfred swallowed, anxious in the face of the man's barely concealed anger. “Yes sir. I won't let you down.” 

“Good, good. I'll expect a full report come morning.” He set his eyes on the paperwork, fresh from the typewriters of their secretaries.

As Alfred left through the offices, a hand pulled on the sleeve of his uniform. 

A small dark haired man looked up at him. He sat at a desk, typewriter halfway through a report. 

“Ah, Officer Antal. What can I do for you?” He gave a small and insincere smile of reassurance. 

The man grinned in response with his crooked and yellowing teeth under a moustache. “Officer Alfred, would you like me to accompany you to Yahar'gul? I overheard you speaking to the sergeant and I-” 

-“I'm not sure that would be wise-” 

“It won't be a problem, sir, I can promise you that.” A small glimmer of hope crossed Antal’s face and Alfred couldn't bring himself to deny the man the possibility of capturing a Confederate or even getting a promotion. Or just recognition for once in his career. 

He sighed, though not unkindly, “Two’s company?” 

Antal smiled again and lifted himself from his chair. He barely reached Alfred's shoulders, “I'll get my coat.” 

They took a cruiser from the station and crossed into Yahar'gul in silence. It was broken as they came into the village by Antal. 

“Isn't this outside League territory?” 

Alfred nodded, “They seem to be having a change of pace. The crow was spotted by one of our men entering but wasn't followed.” 

“The crow?” 

“Just a silly name. Dresses in black and wears feathers in her hat. How many league investigations have you been assigned to?” 

Antal rubbed his chin, grinning. “A woman?” He questioned, seemingly ignoring the one pointed at him, “I didn't know many women were involved in the underworld. You'd think mafia ties would drive them away. Too much blood.” 

A scoff came from Alfred, “You forget the city we live in, my friend. Doesn't seem to stop her. Had several encounters and she doesn't seem the type to cower from the sight of blood.” The cruiser bounced a little more now over the uneven cobbles. Cathedral Ward had a constant upkeep but it seemed the surrounding areas were less fortunate. 

“If you were a mobster selling illegal blood, what shop would you frequent the most?” Alfred spoke softly to his companion, taking in the front streets of the village. 

The buildings were all decrepit, none too promising of a large pool of wealth lurking beyond the front of their dusty doors. Their boots left prints in the thick layer of dirt over the cobbles. 

“The butcher?” Antal asked sheepishly, pointing toward one of the closer buildings. A barely legible sign reading ‘Butcher’ in black paint sat above the door. Dirt caked onto the small sectioned window, obscuring any view of the products on display. 

“Worth a try.” 

He followed the shorter man into the shop, a small silver bell ringing overhead. The scent of cigar smoke hung heavy in the air and Alfred suppressed the urge to cough. 

The woman at the counter glowered at the two of them and at their uniforms. She exhaled another cloud of smoke, a dark greyish blue. 

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” She nearly croaked. Alfred began to feel antsy.

He pulled a small leather booklet from his pocket and showed her the badge inside, silver and shining. “We’re from the Yharnam Police Department.” 

A look of annoyance crossed her face, “You think I couldn’t tell my the uniforms? I'm assuming you're not looking at our choice cuts today, are you?” She inspected the badge he had lain on the table with thinly veiled curiosity, or perhaps alarm. 

“Afraid not, ma'am. We're looking into any blood sales around this area.” 

She didn't look up from the badge, “The Church sells to us as they do to everyone else. There's a dispensary up the road staffed by a nun by the name of Adella if you're looking to buy. She's been charging more than normal lately.” 

Alfred caught Antal’s eye and rose an eyebrow. He took his badge back and set it inside his uniform coat. 

The woman nodded, “Never see your type up here, hope it's not too serious.” 

“Before we go, have you seen a woman recently? Dark hair and skin, brown eyes. Dressed in blue and black, wears a hat with feathers in the band?” 

The woman looked surprised. “Can't say I have, but I'll keep an eye out.” 

The silver bell above the door chimed as they left. Dust-thickened air came in gusts. 

“Ah-” Antal held up a finger as if remembering something important. “Forgot something, I'll be quick.” He removed a notebook from his pocket and retreated to the butcher shop. Alfred watched him go and listened to the tinkling bell. 

The buildings of Yahar'gul loomed over him, looking down with their window eyes, seeking anything he hid inside himself. Intricate architecture was nothing to the dirt that wore it away. The detail was so lost with time that it was questionable if it existed in the first place. Shrubs grew from the cracks in the cobbles, their skeletal fingers reaching for the heavens. Oh, how he missed the pristine stonework of the Cathedral! The village was only a stone’s throw from being consumed by the natural world. 

The bell chimed again and Alfred looked back to his company emerging from the shop. 

“Any luck?” 

The man shrugged, “Just needed her name and some other information, for recording purposes.” 

“Ah, I see.” 

He looked down at his book, “If we’re to go back perhaps we'll run into someone a little more pleasant.” 

Alfred chuckled. “Perhaps. It's worth looking into the nun she mentioned. I know it's absurd to investigate our own people but,” he took a breath, Antal watching him intently, “she could've been bought out. Replaced, even.” 

A grim expression of agreement set on Antal’s lips. It was hard to see under the moustache, but Alfred managed. 

The entrance to the dispensary was marked by two church servants wielding staffs. They stepped aside at the sight of the men's’ uniforms, faces slack and dumb. 

III

“You're telling me you lost the crow?” Logarius looked over his spectacles at his officer with a neutral disappointment. 

He bowed his head, “We've looked through the greater part of Yahar'gul, she proves a very hard woman to find.” 

“So it seems.” 

A great wave of shame washed over Alfred but he dared not let it show. He couldn't show weakness in front the sergeant, nor any indication that he would give up before the crow was found. The drive to prove himself still reared its head when he failed, now more than ever. 

“I suggest you're more thorough when the opportunity comes again.” Logarius continued after a short time of silence. “If we capture her, we've very nearly got the League, and from there, well-” he cut himself off, eyes distracted with the thought of whatever it was. 

“What happens after the League?” Alfred was most likely going to regret prying, but he couldn't help it. 

“We’ll find that damned Vileblood woman whose family has been stealing from the Church since its conception.” Logarius’ face lit with some kind of grim passion that Alfred couldn't help but be mesmerized by. It was horrifying and dangerous but contained an emotion Alfred could only hope to experience someday. “This,” he stood, rounding his desk and taking Alfred’s shoulder, “is the purpose of our organization. Why the Church provides us with strength. We must destroy all other providers of blood so that no one can intervene with ministrations of the future and maybe,” he was breathing heavily now, “maybe we'll put an end to this cursed scourge.” 

•••

“How did the follow-up go?” Antal asked him. Not able to think of a reason to drive him away, Alfred sighed. 

“Sergeant Logarius wants the League found. We can't let them continue operating under our noses like this. But-” Alfred looked around the room momentarily where other officers and workers were occupied with their own tasks, “We must keep it quiet. Who's to know what would happen around here if it got out that that group of riff raff was outsmarting us.” 

Antal chuckled, “Perhaps you're underestimating the riff raff? 

He could do nothing but sigh and sit next to Antal. They sat at a stove where a coffee pot steamed. The stools next to the station’s tiny kitchen were rickety and liable to fall into pieces at any moment, but Alfred found at that moment there were worse places he could be than sitting next to the department’s most underperforming officer. 

“Perhaps.” 

IV 

“Gascoigne! What are you doing here? I-I've had strange men in here all day asking after you like you've done something wrong-” Amelia’s voice was high and concerned like an insistent bird. She trailed behind him as he strode down the hallway of the hospital. 

“I need blood.” 

The doctor stopped and looked at him, “Blood? You're not sick, are you?” 

Gascoigne turned his neck to look at her. Her white clothes were fresh and yet to be stained today. He never knew how the servants got all the blood out. “Something’s happening to me.” 

“Oh gods.” She clasped her hands together over her chest in an expression of shock. He was afraid she might faint. She should've become an actor instead of a doctor. 

“Quickly, before it comes back.” Already he felt the darkness tugging at him, ready to make room for the savagery that lurked in every man's brain. The doctor looked at him, her eyes pale and concerned. She was so small, so soft looking. It wouldn't take much to smother her with her own apron. That damned white apron. 

“Follow me. I’ll do what I can.” 

•••

He lay on the table, strapped by his wrists. She stood above him with a ministration needle, two inches long and silver in color. She held it to the light. 

“I'd tell you that this wouldn't hurt, but I'd be lying.” Amelia laughed nervously and angled the needle along his arm. It slowly pressed in, breaking the first layers of skin and beading blood. “You're going to get new blood. Yours isn't doing you any good. Also,” she glanced around, “we have visitors from Mensis who are taking a look around our operations. They might poke in. Those madmen are trying to develop a cure, can you believe it?” She rambled on to herself. Gascoigne was slowly slipping between consciousness. 

Amelia’s face wavered above him like a ripple on water. Her words were the same, and gently fading from his ears, “A cure for this ghastly plague.” 

He awoke to a dark room. Slowly, he stretched out his hands to explore the area around him. He felt metal bars of the stretcher, and found his wrists still bound by straps. Gascoigne balled his fists and jerked his arms towards himself in an attempt to break the bonds. 

A clicking of a tongue came to him from his right. He moved his face to the sound but could still see nothing. Gascoigne tried to pull his arm free again and was met with a hand pushing him down. 

“Let me go.” He growled’ still struggling, “What is this?” 

The hand moved to his chest, pushing him down into the stretcher. It had no great strength but he felt numbed by the touch. 

“My dear-” a voice said, “this is enlightenment. What do you see?” 

Carefully, the owner of the voice undid his right hand from the strap. Gascoigne reached out, trying to touch the other man in the room. He was met with nothing but empty air. 

The man chuckled, “No, no. Let me help you.” His cold hands grabbed Gascoigne’s arm and redirected his own hand to his face. Under his fingers were the bandages he'd seen wrapped around the faces of plague victims after the church was done with them. The faces he always turned to avoid, never dwelling on them except on the most sleepless of nights where there was nowhere to turn but in. A deep well of shame he felt only snatches of. 

He didn't need to remove the bandage to see what they'd done. It wouldn't matter. “You bastard.” 

“Oh, it was Doctor Amelia’s idea. She is brilliant, you know. Said you could take the pain, Father. After all, what else did you have to lose?” 

Gascoigne reached out again, this time meeting the clothes of the speaker. He grabbed the cloth before the man could step away and dragged him close. 

“I could rip you to pieces.” 

There was a smile in the man's voice, “I'd like to see you try. It seems the beast is still there, even in churchmen.” Then the fabric slipped from his hand. Effortlessly, the man returned Gascoigne’s hand to its strap on the stretcher and he was immobile once again. He found no strength to resist. 

“Father, I hope you'll not hold it against me, what I've done. You're very important to me. I believe you may hold the key to our salvation, yet. With your earthly vision gone, you have all the tools to see into the cosmos.” The man went quiet, apparently lost in thought. 

“Who are you?” 

He was slow in answering, “Micolash, head of the School of Mensis. I do hope you recover soon, but,” he could hear the squeak of a chair as the man rose, “if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.” 

Micolash then left Gascoigne alone in silence. In the darkness he could hear the rest of the clinic, busy with scourge victims and ministrations. It seemed he was alone, and no one would come for him in this place.


End file.
